ENA

Shit

ck porch from this tool shed, and my mo

d crunch of her enforcer boot

sees the torn, crimson-soaked blue flannel lying on the floor

ss, my boxer's instincts kicking into ove

ck-and-gold veins along his neck slowly fading back under his tan skin as he

work jacket on. Button

d off the five-gallon metal drum of motor oil and turpentin

nt instantly floods the small shed,

ght outside t

harp as a razor through the planks. "

e hit the air. If I walk out there without a mark on me, she's going t

bruised and tender from knocking C

rake my bare right knuckles hard across the jagged,

, welling bright, fresh red. Behind me, Bass sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes flar

ping the back of my bleeding hand across my mo

oor open, stepping straight out onto t

ask, holding my bleeding right ha

etty has already gone inside the main house, leaving only the River Ash Exe

y to my split, dripping knuckles.

eding," she

the rusted latch on his tailgate," I lied without blinking, lifting my torn knuckles for her inspection. "And then I

beside the workbench in his canvas work jacket, zipped all the way to his chin. His face is pale, a sheen o

a little deeper, but steady enough to pass. "Sorry to keep Morena late

My mother's eyes flick from Bass's pale face, d

the southern creek before

o I don't sway. "The sector was

orn out," Grace says, her tone lethal. "The northern patrol

keep my face blank. "A ro

and before it stiffens. If you can't throw a right cross by tomorrow's spa

m," Bass s

. I just keep my bleeding fist pressed against my jacket, praying to God t